You Read Your Book, Baby I'll Float Away
by Foibles and Fables
Summary: You’re lying in silence, not awkward like it used to be, not silence because she doesn’t want to acknowledge your presence – silence simply for the sake of content silence.


**Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. This writing is for entertainment purposes only and is not for profit.  
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Your fingers move idly, tracing the curved indent of a seam in the fluffy comforter. Contentment is at a max – your feet are warm and your eyes are heavy. The only barriers to falling asleep completely are that this isn't your bed and that Meredith isn't falling asleep either. And there's no way you're going to miss a moment of this.

Trusted. Inside. You wonder how many others have been in this almost sacred position, and that first thought of _sacred_ almost makes you shake your head at your obsession. The ones who were there before you. Derek, definitely. Cristina, from what you know. George, you suddenly remember, for a very short and painful time. Maybe even Izzie once or twice, but never as often as Cristina.

You're lying in silence, not awkward like it used to be, not silence because she doesn't want to acknowledge your presence – silence simply for the sake of content silence.

(besides, you're kind of afraid that if you say something, you'll wake up downstairs with your head on Mark's shoulder, all of this having been a half-lucid subconscious wish)

To prove to yourself that yes, this is really happening, you sigh and curl your toes. No jarring waking sensation. No being forcibly ripped by Meredith's bed by consciousness. It's wonderful. Her eyes flicker toward you and you give her a small, sleepy smile, which she returns after a short moment of cautious processing and contemplation.

And it's like times slows down to nothing, reveling in the acceptance that still seems new, but is familiar and eternal all at the same time.

(you pray and pray that she feels the same way)

After another deep sigh, you realize that you're on Derek's side of the bed, which would have been a bit more obvious had you not been so twitterpatted after climbing under the covers with Meredith. There's a hint of men's body wash (probably not-so-coincidentally the same as Mark's) in the sheets, mixed with sweet-smelling fabric softener.

The men must know you're thinking about them; a sudden and booming whoop erupts from downstairs (Derek) followed by a frustrated expletive (definitely, _definitely_ Mark). The sound of the television and the football game has been white noise for a while. You all had started watching it together after dinner. It's the Seahawks versus the Giants, a huge game for not only both teams but for Mark and Derek as well. Seattle versus New York. New versus old. Here versus there. Derek roots for the Hawks while Mark stubbornly cheers on the Giants (you don't hold it against him, even though you technically could).

You two didn't get involved in their little quarrel. In fact, the first quarter had barely passed before Meredith stood and announced that she was exhausted. She was still wiped out from recovery, and another full day of work on top of it only exacerbated it even more. She was going upstairs to lie down, and she invited you to come, claiming that she didn't want to leave you with "the animals."

A second of flabbergasted staring and hopefully no embarrassing noises (you really don't remember) later, you were on her heels as she headed up the stairs. Besides, you reasoned, Mark and Derek need their quality time as much as you need it with Meredith. Maybe it's your state of loopy relaxation or something in the air, but an image of Mark and Derek doing the exact same thing as you and Meredith floats to your head, and you almost laugh out loud. It still comes out, but only a snicker and a tiny (but still humiliating) snort.

Meredith raises one eyebrow. The same corner of her mouth chases after it. "What's so funny?" she asks before it transforms into a full-blown smile.

(there's that love thing again)

There's no good way to say that you're laughing at the mental image of your respective men in bed together, so you reply with "nothing." And then you laugh again, but it's okay because so does she, even though she really has no idea what you're thinking.

You allow your eyes to creep back up to the ceiling. Meredith shifts, reaching over to her nightstand for something. You want to know so desperately what it is, but you don't want to look overly-eager, so you lie in agony. It overcomes you. You indulge in a glance. It's a book, and a thick one at that. You can't make out the title. It's open and she's reading intently. Your heart sinks. You want to know, to enjoy it vicariously.

Time passes – you're not sure how much, but it's a while. Another touchdown, Giants this time. Mark roars in excitement while Derek lets out a muffled "get off of me!" and you don't want to know. More time. Meredith fidgets and squirms. Releases an irritated sigh. Squirms some more.

Finally, she makes this little noise of defeat, placing the book face-down in her lap. You slowly raise your eyes to meet her blue ones. "I can't do it. Attempt number sixteen failed," she tells you, blonde waves rubbing against the pillow behind her.

"What?" you ask, trying to sound amusedly interested but you're really hanging on her every word.

"_Anna Karenina_," she replies with somewhat of a flourish, flashing you the cover. "I've tried to read it sixteen times and I've given up on every single one. Patient, right?"

You blink at the cover design. The image awakens something – connections form in your mind, bridging the gap between past and present until the picture is completely clear. The network of knowledge and facts becomes less random and muddled, bringing the text to the forefront of your memory. You hold back an excited smile.

"_Happy families_," you recite, "_are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way_." It's not until the memorized line leaves your mouth that you realize what pertinence it carries. For you, for her, for everyone.

Meredith stares at you for a moment: first blankly, then quizzically, and you can see "how did you…?" forming on her lips. But then she herself remembers – _photographic memory_ – and she rolls her eyes jokingly.

"Twelfth grade AP English summer reading assignment," you admit with a shy smile plastered to your face, tucking your chin into your shoulder, and you swear that you see your sister's face change like yours might have when she smiled at you earlier.

"I should have known," she says with playful sarcasm, and you bat your eyes quite involuntarily. She replaces the book to its rightful place on the nightstand (presumably as a paperweight), yawns, stretches, settles back against the pillow, and closes her eyes. You're about to do the same when she speaks.

"Lexie."

"Yeah?"

"Show off that photographic memory," Meredith tells you, raising her eyebrows but keeping her eyes closed. "Tell me the story so I don't have to read it." Her voice is thick and drowsy now.

You regard her resting form with bemusement, propping yourself up on your elbow. "You want me to tell you a bedtime story?" you ask her with a slight chuckle, narrowing your eyes. "A _Tolstoy_ bedtime story?"

"Yes."

"I can't remember the _whole_ thing, you know." There's a tiny pang of inadequacy somewhere near the middle of your gut, and you know it's ridiculous but you can't help it.

After a moment, she responds. "The abridged version."

And you grin. Happy families and all that. Sharing your bed. Smiling even though you don't get the joke. Making bedtime stories out of unreadable, unbearable nineteenth century Russian literature.

"Well, part one opens with the introduction of Prince Stephan Oblonsky, 'Stiva'…"


End file.
